Smug
by Gemenied
Summary: Grace is smug. She has reason to as Boyd has to concede. But she is slowly, but surely driving them all mad and he is slowly, but surely running out of ideas of how to stop her. Poor man. Really. The poor man!


**Title**: Smug

**Rating**: T (for a few swear words - well deserved I believe)

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing of this, if I did...we would have seen this on the show, like you wouldn't believe it.

**Summary**: Grace is smug. She has reason to as Boyd has to concede. But she is slowly, but surely driving them all mad and he is slowly, but surely running out of ideas of how to stop her. Poor man. Really. The poor man!

**A/N**: Please note that this story comes with a daft-warning. It's not serious and not meant to be. It was written as a cheer-up for Joodiff who also provided me with the premise. It is set in June 2005 and plays on the fact that while Sue Johnston is a staunch Liverpool FC-fan, Trevor Eve is a staunch Chelsea one wish for 'behind the scenes'-footage.

**Warning**: Yes...this story deals with the "beautiful game" and the "Miracle of Istanbul".

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Smug<strong>

She is smug, there is no other word for it. She is annoyingly, enduringly and very ostensibly smug. Which gets on his nerve a whole lot, but also causes quite a few other reactions he isn't sure he should analyse too closely. Contrary to popular belief and the image he is keen to establish, he does think about his emotions and actions, much more than is sensible in general, and much more than is healthy when it comes to her.

But she is unapologetically smug, which drives him up the wall and that leads to a few observations.

Spence and Stella stay out of the issue, though he can see that they are affected. Spencer just smiles indulgently, for in his eyes Grace can do no wrong, and even though he probably grinds his teeth when she starts yet another rendition of the song, he lets her have her glee and allows himself to be lifted by it. Stella, new and unsure because of it, looks on with something akin to scared fascination, but even she, when she believes that no one will see, cracks an amused smile. Fond too, which goes a long way in raising her standing in Boyd's eyes.

Felix is another matter altogether, ignoring the whole thing on principle. That lack of interest does nothing to endear her further to Boyd, making him doubt sincerely that her presence with the unit will be of prolonged time. Staying out of the way of your colleague's more exhausting idiosyncrasies is one thing, but ignoring somebody - especially Grace - is an absolute Don't.

He might moan and he might complain, he might even shout at her to shut up in the very near future, but he won't stand for anybody else upsetting Grace when he can prevent it.

Having duly considered the rest of the team, Boyd returns to the matter at hand. Grace is smug.

It's not an entirely new thing, she can be very self-satisfied when she proves that she is right and he is wrong, but this is a whole new plateau.

By rights he should just snap her neck to have it all end, for this has been going on for a good six weeks, and if she's going the way he suspects she's planning, there are another three ahead of them, during which they will either all run screaming from the building, or somebody will have killed her. At this particular moment, Boyd is not sure which will come first.

Grace is completely oblivious, floating on her wave of unbreakable glee. And that is, though Boyd would refuse to admit it on principle and in this particular case even more, relentlessly enchanting. He is enchanted by and attracted to Grace on the best of days, but there is just something about her in this mood that makes her absolutely irresistible.

By rights, he should be completely pissed at her. It's been six weeks since the semi-final and she's still at it. Of course, she had the day off. Hell, he took the day off to go as well - though they were standing on different sides of the pitch. She in red, he in blue. In retrospect, he is glad they did. They might have killed each other in the stands back then.

He claims that it's the referee's fault, she argues against for the hell of it. Her team won, definitely in decibels. In all honesty, even after such a long time, the memory of the energy in the stadium leaves him buzzing. He can't imagine just how much residual adrenaline still pumped through her system by the time Grace boarded that plane to Istanbul three weeks later. Though it made him cringe back then, Boyd had wished her luck and even meant it.

Of course, he settled down in front of the telly that night like millions of other football fans, and he even felt sorry for her at half-time. Naturally, he was riveted during the second. At 60 minutes, he was off the sofa, shouting at the telly too. After that, even he saw red and wondered just how hoarse she'd be the next day. Or the day after.

The rest was nail biting...and then having a stiff drink or two. Or three afterwards.

It still makes him grin, Grace's reaction after his instinctively sent text message. The phone ringing and a screaming woman on the other end. Material for lifelong blackmail.

She's not the least bit embarrassed by it, of course. Grace rarely is, when she's lets loose the mischievous wag who probably turned her parents prematurely grey.

They all waited with bated breath for her return, but Boyd doesn't think either he or anybody on the team was prepared for the storm of red blasting into the office. Since then they've been (mis-)treated to a happy and loud rendition of "You'll Never Walk Alone" pretty much every hour. It doesn't sound altogether pleasant, because Grace, bless her, can't carry a tune to save her life, but to her it's the thought that counts anyway.

Her office is decked out in no less than a dozen different scarves - all an overwhelming bright red. Boyd is certain that all this will cause them all some sort of eye cancer, if he can't get health and security, or however those people are called, to come in and force her to take them down.

At least Grace has stopped to wear her team shirts. Priced possessions they all are, and Boyd can't help but admire the collection she as. Entirely from a collector's point of view, of course. That's a stunning amount of money that woman wears to football matches.

That she's given up on that is only a small relief, for June is hot this year, even in London, and so Grace wears considerably...less. Which does nothing for his self control or his ability to make her shut up. Boyd has ideas, of course, the already mentioned snapping of her neck being one, but probably the least feasible option.

On the other hand, it would probably the only real way to put them all, but most especially him, out of their misery. There's always been some sort of friendly banter and rivalry between them when it came to footie, but like every good Englishman he takes it very seriously.

Grace will automatically tell him that football isn't a matter of life and death, but much more important than that. And, of course, her smugness will pretty much explode when she reminds him just who exactly has said those words.

Red rag, Grace Foley damn well dangles it before his very eyes. Like clockwork and with ever increasing fervour.

Killing her might be the only option in the end.

She walks in with her light cardigan open, which makes the summer top underneath visible. Form-fitting as it is, it does nothing to hide her curves, and Boyd appreciates the sight a whole lot more than is sensible and healthy. Even if the shirt is red and bears a certain crest.

She's also singing quietly to herself and Boyd automatically checks whether another hour has already gone by. It hasn't, but when did that ever stop Grace Foley from doing anything she wanted? And when did that fact ever make Peter Boyd not indulge her?

He's far too weak when it comes to Grace, even though he can hide it well. It's his only saving grace, no pun intended, that nobody even imagines just how weak he is for her. His reputation, fearsome and dangerous, would be shattered instantly.

Not even Grace herself is aware of how much he indulges her. She just cuts through every rule and every line he draws, most of the time without realizing it. If she knew the power she has over him, well... Boyd refuses to think about it. And regrets it.

"Grace, shut up!" he growls instead.

She gives him an innocent look, eyes wide and questioning, as if she really doesn't know where this comes from. Realization settles in quickly, though, and there it is again, that smug twitch of her mouth. Carelessly dropping the file in her hand on his desk she shrugs and says, "Sorry."

And is not sorry at all, as all and sundry can hear.

Once again, Boyd indulges her by not shouting and kicking her out of the office until she's gotten a hold of herself. Instead, he heaves a long-suffering sigh and shakes his head.

"Bugger off!"

Grace chuckles and turns, the sway of her hips just a tad bit exaggerated, which is entirely deliberate and duly noticed, to cause Boyd feeling a lot hotter than even a hot summer evening can account for. Completely inappropriate, but the bloody woman does it for a sport. Happily.

As she closes the door, giving him one last mischievous grin over her shoulder, he can hear her singing again, "Walk on! Walk on through the rain."

Banging his head repeatedly against the desk sounds like the best plan of action, but Boyd refrains from it, because such a sign of weakness is entirely inappropriate.

Out in the bullpen, both Spencer and Stella smirk, before turning towards their boss to give him a helplessly pleading look. Six weeks of relentless team cheering is driving them to distraction as well. With a short and sharp gesture of his head, Boyd orders them home, a command they heed so quickly that they seemingly leave vapour trails behind them.

Boyd can't really blame them, the glass wall keeps a lot of the Kop-songs muted. Which is a real blessing.

Shaking his head once more, he tries to work, but 'try' remains the operative word. His eyes are constantly drawn across the divide to her office, where she, though with a file in hand, wanders the space, doing the occasional quick dance.

She accuses him of being childish on a regular basis, but her behaviour comes scarily close to an overexcited youngster's. It's completely inappropriate, not to mention embarrassing for a woman of her age and professional standing, compounding the fact that his nerves are pretty much shot by now, so he decides to put an end to all the football glee.

It needs quite a bit of steeling himself to bring his mask of professional, but friendly detachment into place and it is helped very little by his rising blood pressure at the sight of her clad in her thin floaty summer skirt and the top. Boyd is not really in control when it comes to Grace, nor will he ever be.

"You don't plan on doing this for another three weeks, do you?" he rumbles out, attempting to sound gruff and disapproving.

Grace's glance goes towards the scarves first, before she turns. She doesn't need to answer, her reply screamingly obvious, but she does anyway. And she's so fucking smug about it. "Actually, I _was_ planning to."

Naturally.

Boyd leans against the door frame and crosses his arms over his chest. It brings out the muscles in his arms and shoulders, shows the breadth of his chest in an impressive way. He knows it and feels a little smug himself when he can see Grace's eyes flit over his body for a quick indulgent moment.

"You might be dead before that," he continues almost lazily.

"Considering murder, Superintendent?" she replies and it still sounds so incredibly smug that his blood pressure rises. He can't let her win this discussion, he simply can't!

He takes a step into the office, then a second and a third, closing the distance between them, crowding Grace against the high bookshelf. She has to look up at him, which gives him an advantage, he thinks, and feels even more smug about it.

The feeling doesn't last long when Grace smirks. "Make sure you bury me in my 77-vintage shirt, please."

He groans, loudly. "Grace, just shut up, will you?"

She's got the devil in her, that woman.

"Make me!"

The devil! With sparkling blue eyes and laughter in her voice and bloody fantastic cleavage in that fan-shirt.

"Make you?" he asks with narrowed eyes and a dangerous edge to his voice, which she, naturally, ignores completely.

"Make me," she repeats.

It's a quick move he makes, taking her by surprise, but it is effective. His mouth crashes against hers and he takes advantage of her surprise by slipping his tongue inside. They clash and retreat, duel, explore fight. It's a game of passing and moving, of feinting and attacking, seeking the advantage to hammer home.

It's also very addictive.

Boyd is a man used to take the initiative, barrelling on and taking what he wants. He wants Grace Foley, her of the smug smile and unacceptable taste in football teams, so he pulls her tightly against him, his arms around her waist and his hands possessively grabbing her arse to hold her even tighter. He kisses her insistently and with growing urgency. It's her moan that befires his own arousal, makes him almost mindless with want.

She kisses him back with equal fervour, her hands wandering, and if he had any doubt about the fact that the devil extends to more than just her way with words and her ability to needle him, then Grace proves him wrong within seconds. She knows what she wants as well and has no qualms about taking it for herself.

They break apart after an interminable time, both panting, eyes wide and pupils dilated. Boyd's not fit to go out in polite society, as they both can feel, but Grace is not altogether presentable either. Their eyes lock exchanging intimate messages that deny any regret or embarrassment. They wanted this and they both want more.

Grace smiles, smug again and quietly hums. That damn song.

It's a statement. Of course, it is.

And she is so fucking smug about it that Boyd simply doesn't see another way out.

He surrenders like his team did a few weeks ago at Anfield.

Though his surrender turns out to be a lot sweeter.

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><p><strong>AN**: In early May 2005 the 2 football teams met at Anfield in the Champions League semi-final. The home team (LFC) won and went to the final in Istanbul 3 weeks later. At halftime the Reds were back 0:3, but managed to equalize. The Champions League was decided in a penalty shootout and Liverpool won. Unbelievable game - still!

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><p>Thank you for reading (this very self-indulgent story). Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


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